Chapter 4
Milo
One, she hasn’t eaten today. I can tell by the sharp edge to her scent—lavender buried under citrus, all stress and no softness. She’s running on caffeine and stubbornness, same as always.
Two, she’s here to work, not drink. The laptop bag over her shoulder and the determined set of her jaw give that away before she even sits down.
Three, she smells like Ben Wilson.
That last one makes me pause mid-pour. I set down the glass I’m cleaning and watch her navigate between the empty tables, heels clicking on the hardwood.
The Barn Bar is quiet this time of day—just old Pete nursing his usual whiskey by the fireplace and a couple of college kids sharing nachos by the window.
The fire crackles low, taking the edge off the January chill, and the whole place smells like woodsmoke and old leather.
Plenty of seats available, but Tessa chooses the one at the end of the bar, closest to the outlet.
Of course she does.
She sets up her laptop, pulls out a notebook and three different colored pens, and doesn’t look at me once.
I give her two minutes before I wander over.
“Tessa Lang.” I lean against the bar, keeping my voice low and easy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She glances up, and there it is—that little flicker of heat before she shuts it down.
I’ve been watching for that flicker since she moved to town.
She has no idea she does it. No idea how it makes me want to lean closer, crowd her space, see how long it takes before she stops pretending she doesn’t notice me.
“Milo. I needed somewhere quiet to work, and my office felt...” She trails off, waving a hand vaguely.
“Suffocating?”
“I was going to say distracting.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” I grab a menu and slide it toward her, letting my fingers brush the bar close to hers. Not touching—I’m not that obvious—but close enough that her scent shifts. More lavender, less citrus. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Food?”
“Just water, thanks. I won’t be here long.”
She won’t order food. She never orders food when she’s working. It’s like she thinks eating will slow her down, take precious minutes away from whatever impossible task she’s set for herself.
I’ve been trying to feed this woman for two years, and she makes it harder than anything I’ve ever done.
“Water it is.”
I fill a glass and set it in front of her, and Ben’s scent hits me again. Leather and musk, clinging to her coat, her hair, her skin. Like she’s been wrapped up in him.
Interesting.
“The fundraiser keeping you busy?” I ask, even as my alpha instincts are busy with the fact that she’s covered in another man’s scent. I want to know what it would take to replace it with mine.
“Always.” She’s typing something on her laptop, but her attention isn’t fully on the screen.
I can tell by the way her shoulders are angled slightly toward me, the way she keeps almost-glancing in my direction.
“I still need five more bachelors, and Ben Wilson is avoiding me like I’m carrying the plague. ”
“Ben’s avoiding everyone lately. Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m not.” She says it too fast. “I just need him to answer a simple question. Yes or no. It’s not complicated.”
“Maybe it is for him.”
She looks up at that, really looks at me, and I let myself hold her gaze. Let her see exactly what I’m thinking. Her cheeks flush pink, and her scent blooms—warmer, sweeter, with an undertone that goes straight to my cock.
Not helpful when I’m trying to have a conversation.
I’ve thought about this woman more than I should admit. Wondered what it would take to make her let go of all that control. Whether she’d be quiet or loud. Whether she tastes as good as she smells.
I’m a patient man. But patience has limits.
“Just means some people are complicated,” I say, keeping my voice light even though my thoughts are anything but. “You want me to talk to him?”
“No. I can handle Ben Wilson.” There’s a determined edge to her voice. “I just need to corner him somewhere he can’t escape.”
“Good luck with that. Man’s slippery when he wants to be.”
She makes a frustrated sound and goes back to her laptop. I watch her for another moment—the furrow between her brows, the way she taps her pen against the bar when she’s thinking, the tension in her shoulders that never seems to ease.
What would it take to make her relax? Really relax, not just the temporary loosening that comes from finishing a task.
I want to know what she looks like when she’s not carrying the weight of every event in Honeyridge on her shoulders.
Want to know if that lavender scent gets stronger when she’s happy, when she’s turned on, when she’s—
I head to the kitchen before my thoughts can go somewhere I can’t come back from.
Ten minutes later, I set a basket of fries in front of her.
She blinks at it like it’s a foreign object. “I didn’t order these.”
“I know.”
I walk away before she can argue, but I watch from the other end of the bar as she stares at the fries for a solid thirty seconds. She looks at me—I’m suddenly very busy polishing a glass—then back at the fries. Confused. Annoyed. Then something softer creeps in.
She eats one fry. Then another.
That’s my girl.
By the time I look over again, half the basket is gone and she’s typing with one hand while reaching for more with the other. Some of the tension has eased from her shoulders. Her scent is warmer now, more lavender than citrus, and when she catches me watching, she doesn’t look away immediately.
Progress.
I give her another twenty minutes before I wander back over.
“Refill on the water?”
“Please.” She doesn’t look up from her screen. “And thank you. For the fries.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. Those just appeared. Magic bar fries.”
That gets a small smile out of her. I want to make her do that again. Want to make her laugh, really laugh, until she forgets to be guarded. Want to know if she’d smile like that after I made her come.
“So.” I lean against the bar, close enough that my scent mingles with hers. Dark chocolate and amber meeting lavender and citrus. “The bachelor auction. How’s that going?”
“Slowly.” She sighs. “I need eight total. I’ve got you, Elijah, and Theo. That’s five more to wrangle.”
“Who else are you thinking?”
“Dr. Lucas Price said he’d do it if I could find someone to cover his shift at the clinic. Sam Hunter hasn’t returned my calls.” She rubs her temple. “After that, I’m running out of ideas.”
“What if I could get you four?” I offer. “Lucas owes me a favor. Sam comes in here most Fridays—I can be persuasive. And there’s a couple of college guys who drink here, Jake and Asher. They’re only twenty-two, if you don’t mind them being on the younger side.”
Tessa’s head snaps up. “You could get me four bachelors?”
“That would leave just one spot.” I hold her gaze, letting the moment stretch. “For Ben. If you can pin him down.”
“At this point, I’ll take anyone with a pulse and a willingness to show up. Including twenty-two-year-olds.” There’s determination in her voice now. “And I’ll pin Ben down. Even if I have to corner him in his own garage.”
“That’s the spirit.” I grin. “So—do we have a deal? I’ll wrangle my four if you wrangle your one.”
The tension in her shoulders eases, and she looks at me like I just handed her a gift. “Milo, that would be—yes. Thank you. Seriously.”
“For the community center roof? Sure.” I let that land, then add: “And for you.”
There it is. The flush that starts at her neck and creeps up to her cheeks. Her scent shifts again—sweeter, that undertone getting stronger—and I have to grip the edge of the bar to keep myself from leaning in and breathing her in properly.
She holds my gaze for a beat too long. I watch her realize this isn’t casual—that I’m not just being friendly. Her pupils dilate slightly, her lips part, and for one perfect second I think she might actually acknowledge what’s been building between us.
Then her phone buzzes. And buzzes again.
“I have to take this.” She’s already gathering her things, all business again. “The venue coordinator is having another crisis.”
“Of course she is.”
Tessa stands, laptop tucked under her arm, and hesitates. “The fries. Let me pay—”
“On the house.”
“Milo.”
“Consider it a thank-you for letting me be part of your bachelor lineup.” I give her my best smile, the one that usually gets me out of trouble. “I promise to bring in good money for that roof. You should come bid on me. See what you win.”
Her scent spikes—unmistakable arousal, there and gone—and I have to lock my knees to keep from following her. My whole body wants to crowd her against that door and find out what other sounds I can pull out of her.
“You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘irresistible.’“
“You would.” But she’s smiling as she heads for the door, pulling her coat tight against the cold waiting outside, and that’s enough. For now.
I watch through the window as she climbs into Ben’s truck, breath fogging in the frozen air, and drives away. Then I pull out my phone and text Lucas and Sam. By the time she gets home, she’ll have two more confirmations in her inbox.
I meant what I said. Anything for her.
The after-work crowd trickles in around five, stamping snow off their boots and heading straight for the fireplace to thaw out. By seven the bar’s comfortably full, the windows fogged with warmth against the dark January night. I pour drinks, make small talk, and keep one eye on the door.
Around eight, Ben Wilson walks in looking like a man who’s had a week crammed into one day.
Cold air rushes in behind him before the door swings shut.
He’s still in his work clothes—jeans and a flannel, grease under his fingernails—and there’s a tension in his shoulders that says he needs alcohol more than conversation.